


Used To Drowning. You Are?

by MoogieMan



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: #pamryan, #unfaithful, Karma - Freeform, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoogieMan/pseuds/MoogieMan
Summary: Pam and Ryan are sneaking around, making fun of Jim. But Jim is not as dumb as they think. He is just basically a good guy, hoping Pam gets her act together, sees what a dishonest, manipulative creep, Ryan is. But Jim's patience only goes so far!





	Used To Drowning. You Are?

**Author's Note:**

> Pam is getting bored. Ryan offers some excitement, however mean spirited. Is Jim really gonna let Pam go Out with Ryan, even if it's only to AA

Used To Drowning. You are?

窗体顶端

 

01.

"I don't know, I just think maybe it could be good for him to have some support. Don't you?"

It's not the opening of a long-winded speech, but it's her main point, so Pam puts a little emphasis on it by way of accompanying facial expression, the kind that implies that, if you were a decent human being, you'd understand. There's some manipulation in there, sure.

Jim smiles that twisted, sarcastic smile, body angling towards the annex. 

"Kelly?" 

The unspoken being, Isn't this someone else's problem?

"Right, a clarification. I meant support that won't make him regress so far backwards, he becomes a lost cause."

"Wow. Harsh."

"Besides," Pam adds with her own smile, but it's sweet and come closer to my spider web, little fly, "I feel like I'm one step closer to creating some real change. Ryan said he's thinking about dying his hair back. Who knows, he might be back to normal by Thursday."

"And sold."

She bounces a little. "Really?"

He gives her the 'I'm a good boyfriend' shrug. "Why not. It's an AA meeting, right? I mean, if anything, at least you'll kick that nasty habit to the curb. So, bonus."

Pam smiles sweetly. The kick to his shin from underneath the table is a loving gesture.

 

02\. 

It's easier to carpool.

Turns out, Ryan has a D.U.I. They could've rode over together in his Mom's station wagon and left the car for Jim, but. That feels weird. And separate cars just feels excessive. So Jim calls on Andy's willingness to be liked by means of offering himself out at no cost and catches a ride with him, and at the end of the day, she and Ryan head downstairs together.

"Nice car," he say over the hood, but it really isn't. Formalities.

"Thanks," she says anyway. The lock/unlock keychain button is broke, so she has to manually stick in the key and give it a twist to the left. That was supposed to be fixed three months ago, but life sort of got in the way. She opens her door and says across the car, "I have it on lease." Only 8 more payments and officially it's hers. Or hers and Roy's. His name was on the lease for more than half of the payments.

He's already tugging at his seatbelt by the time she's in and seated, the door pulled shut behind her. Keys in the ignition. As soon as the car starts up with that customary stop-and-restart growl of the engine Roy never got around to fixing, music erupts out of nowhere. Jim's Echo Orbiter CD he'd been listening to that morning. Pam turns it off.

"Sorry. Jim likes it loud sometimes."

Ryan's sort of smiling, sort of bored, staring out the window. "No, it's okay. Don't apologize for him."

That's a... weird thing to say. Reversing the car and pulling out, she asks, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He rubs his palms on his jeans, up and down. Out of habit, maybe. "Just, it's not your bad vice, right? Don't apologize for it."

"I wouldn't say it was bad."

"That's subjective. I'd say to taste, but. I don't think the implication really works in this example."

An oh, yeah, what do you listen to, Mr. Cool Guy? is on the tip of her tongue, but something about that feels too high school. And out loud Pam doesn't call guys Mr. Cool Guy. That's something only inside-voice Pam does and something Pam, in general, should probably stop doing altogether.

Pam flicks on the a/c and adjusts her mirror a little, the daylight already fading into pinks and yellows in its reflected image.

"Turn here," Ryan points.

They drive.

 

03.

It's an hour and a half later and they're standing outside the rec center that doubles as the meeting place of both Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous. There's a flier on the tack board once you get inside, all of the rip-off numbers still attached. Someone is selling their used washer and drier. Pam had spent an awkward couple of minutes hovering around once the meeting was over and, well, people notice those kind of things.

Everyone else has already left, or they're still inside, mingling. Pam and Ryan are standing at the front entrance. It's definitely dark now, and the parking lot is lit in a way that seems remarkably lacking in progression. The only lamp post is a couple of feet from where they are, to their left and beside a garbage can that is secured in place with a link of chain and a lock. She can spot her car out there in the shadows, in the back.

"You didn't have to come," Ryan says. "It means a lot that you did. Or whatever."

It's weird and surreal to hear something like that come from him, and she half suspects that he's just going through the motions, that he's taking what they said in there just a few minutes before and applying it to real world use. Still, it's progress.

She jingles the keys in her pocket and says, "I had fun." Then rolls her eyes at herself. 'Fun' is the word best used to define an AA meeting? Really?

But Ryan smiles. Not full on or deep or anything, but enough so that it reaches the corners of his eyes. "You are so weird."

"Too much? I figured."

"You know, I thought about taking Kelly here."

"Seriously?"

"For like two seconds. Then I thought about how pathetic I must be that the one go-to person in my life is turning out to be Kelly."

Pam hugs herself when the wind kicks up, hair twisting and blowing in her face. She says, "Maybe it's sweet."

He hadn't been looking at her. They'd been having one of those conversations where you aren't ever directly eye-to-eye, like a couple of businessmen on a smoke break talking sports, but now he turns toward her, hands shoved in his pocket. 

"In what context is that sweet? Seriously. Give me examples."

She laughs. It's sudden and loud, standing where they are. "Hey, I'm just following office gossip. Last I heard you two were--"

"Exclusively not together. I literally cannot stress that enough."

Her smile stays. "Okay. You literally can't?"

"Alright, that was a stupid thing to say. But believe me, the emphasis was there for a reason."

"I don't know." She shrugs and gives him the conspiratorial eye. "I can't imagine Kelly staying quiet for a whole hour."

"That's because she's wired to never stop talking. She used to come over and we'd watch 24 together, and it'd be like, three minutes of quiet watching, then Kelly's observations, which were always something generic like Jack Bauer is really bad-ass. I mean, I know he's bad-ass, why do you think I'm watching, that's just a really obvious statement to make, I don't need you to tell me that every time he does something to confirm a fact that's already a given."

"Wow," she tells him with stretched sincerity, "I totally get your point. I can see how that would be a relationship deal-breaker."

"Being with Kelly was like..." He trails off and his eyes get this wide, far away look.

"What?"

He hangs his head, shaking it. "Forget it."

"What?!"

Lowly, his feelings reeled in to the point of numbness, he admits, "I almost said it was like being with Michael."

And she's laughing all over again, and it's much looser this time.

"It's really not funny," he says, and the thing is, he sounds genuinely horrified. "I need brain-bleach. Whatever, I need new friends."

She's still sort of laughing when she says, "I can't believe you just called him your friend."

The look of horror deepens. "I never said that."

"Michael, brain-bleach, friends. In that order. Sorry."

He stumbles backwards dramatically until the building is behind him, and then he lets his head fall back. She's still smiling when he says, "I hate my life," and it's funny at first, because he sounds so hopelessly despondent, but then she realizes mid-laugh that he's not kidding. He slides down until he's sitting, knees bent straight out in front of him, and he says again, "I have the worst life," like he's coming to terms with something huge.

Pam stays where she is. In the past year she has gotten freakishly, alarmingly good at comforting people she normally only has professional contact with, and while mostly it's awkward, it makes her feel good, too, that she can step outside of herself and be useful. But she's never had that sort of open relationship with Ryan that she's had with Michael or Angela or even Dwight.

With an internal stop being so stupid kick, she walks over and leans down and sits beside him. She doesn't mean to sit so close, but they end up shoulder-to-shoulder, her elbow bumping into his. She sets her purse on her lap and finds herself playing with the latch. Just something to do.

"You don't hate your life."

He starts ticking off a list. "I'm addicted to drugs. I went to jail. I have a criminal record. I work at a paper company for a guy I've seriously considered putting out a restraining order against. He leaves me the weirdest texts."

"You're right," she tries joking. "Your life pretty much sucks."

He's staring at her. They're close enough to make it uncomfortable.

"Why did you come tonight?"

She shrugs, heavy and slow because his arm is right there. "You asked me to?"

"So? Whatever. That's such bullshit. You could've said no. You could've said you and Jim were dating and you don't go anywhere without him on a leash."

Something in there feels like a dig towards her, and she doesn't like the way it feels, being targeted like that.

"Jim doesn't care."

"Really? Good for him. That's so great. Shit, who cares? I'm not talking about Jim. You're probably the first girl he's ever seen naked--"

Appalled, she starts to get up, but he sticks his hand out to stop her. He catches her by the arm, and it's warm where his fingers wrap around her like it's nothing. "Look, I'm being a dick, sorry," he says on a sigh, and when she stops trying to get up, when she just sort of falls back beside him, he rests his head against the wall again. "Kelly would say this is my destructive side. She has this thing about quoting Dr. Phil all the time. Seriously, it's so annoying."

Pam isn't so sure she should just sit here like two second ago he didn't just insult her and Jim both, but at the same time, melodramatically storming off seems like it'd require more effort than she currently has. Besides, she'd make it half a block before guilt would set in. She's his ride home.

"You ever get the feeling that you peak in high school?" he asks, eyes almost closed. "I mean, think about it. You're young, you feel great. No one loses their shit if you get caught smoking. I stole my parent's car once and they grounded me for a week. I mean, a week. That's what? That's nothing."

Pam shrugs and realizes Ryan's still holding on. Not as tight, but his hand is still there, heavy against her. She realizes this and it takes a minute before she says, "I don't know. I kinda hope not, you know? I was kind of a nerd in high school." Which is mostly true, or at least mostly true in that deprecating way you tend to think back about your childhood years. "I had friends. Okay, I had Roy. That's pretty sad when I think about it, actually. I had my boyfriend and that's it. Wow, that is really sad."

Ryan laughs, and his fingers slide down near her wrist, one at a time, and it's not a big deal. "I hated myself back then. I had two friends. That's it."

"No way," she says. The idea of Ryan-the-social-outcast is ridiculous. "You seem like you'd end up being voted Mr. Popular, or Most Likely to Succeed."

"Right? I always thought so."

He remembers then that he's still holding on and it's an awkward time as he pulls away and fakes a stretch where his arms end up settling across his chest. He straightens a leg in front of him, then re-angles it. Pam stares off into the parking lot where, just beyond the curb and the bushes, she can see the main road. There isn't a lot of traffic. Part of her knows it must be getting late, but another part wonders what the need to rush home is, anyway. Jim will wait.

"Besides," she says, just to clear the tension, "Michael has a crush on you and you seem pretty used to it."

"That's like saying someone's used to drowning. How can anyone be used to drowning?"

Inside, she remembers, he'd said something about feeling like he was drowning. How living in New York had opened him up to things he never saw in Scranton, and how he got lost in all the power until it was too much and too hard to handle. It makes her think.

"What was it like in Ft. Lauderdale?" she asks, and feels nosy doing it, but curious, too.

He tilts his head and pulls his shoulder up, drawing in. He's staring at his shoes, where he's turned his ankles over, feet creating a parenthesis. "Here's the short answer," he winds up telling her. "It was sunny most of the time."

She nudges him in the ribs. "So what's the long one?"

"It was court mandated."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, you know."

He gives her a look, one that says keep the stupid inside, please. Then it changes. "First I was sick. Then I was mad. Then my parents came to tell me how much I was turning into a huge disappointment. I got clean. They sent me home." He lets out a breath. "Whatever. I went because I had to, but I'm glad that I did. That I went through it and survived. I mean, I was a mess. You saw."

She tucks hair behind her ears, strands that've rebelled against her ponytail. "What do they say now? Your parents?"

"I don't know. What's to say? They're proud, or whatever. I hit rock bottom and I came back. I'm their golden boy."

She's still looking at him. It's funny, but with his hair looking like it does, he seems so much younger. "You've changed a lot," she says. "It's a good thing. I'm really happy for you."

He stares at her, then, in a way that makes her self-conscious. It's intense and soft and something about it makes her think of Jim, of confessions spilt in another empty parking lot.

 

04.

Ever since Michael gave their sales back, the Michael Scott Paper Company sort of officially fizzled into its deathly end. The poster board full of pictures Pam was mostly too bored to care were being taken gets stuffed behind a chair in Michael's closet (there's also another poster board back there, but when Pam tries to tug it out, Michael stops her with a serious You're not ready for this, grasshopper. It's his Mister Miagi voice, which means Pam listens.) She stops getting water set periodically at the corner of her desk. Michael even ends the morning seminars that, back upstairs and out of the storage closet, entailed a quiet morning cheer he still insisted upon, a recount of the previous night's TV offering, and a couple of donuts. 

It's strange, but she's gotten used to having breakfast with them.

But two weeks after they've all meshed back together, things click back into place. Someone else is answering phones -- and it's the weirdest thing in the world to hear, Dunder Mifflin, this is Erin and Pam wonders sort of sarcastically, every now and again watching Dwight's ears perk or Andy's eyes stray towards reception, how many people are falling in love with the new secretary, and if it's a cliche or just something hypnotic about those words -- and she's sitting at triangle of desks with Jim (great) and Dwight (he's disconnected her computer four times already because, he claimed, her cords were mingling with his, creating a safety hazard that was putting the entire office at risk) and Michael's stopped getting excited when she lands a new client.

Ryan's sitting across from Meredith, and when she leans forward or slides her chair back, she can see him.

 

05.

Jim's on the phone when she gets up to eat. He packed lunch today, and she's hoping he noticed that she'd scooted the leftovers all the way to the back of the fridge for a reason. Maybe in college three days of pizza was do-able, but the idea of having to microwave another waxy, cold piece seems about as appetizing as eating that suspiciously linty chili Kevin brought in last week.

She pushes the door open with a bored sigh, thinking I wonder if Jim remembered to put the milk and cereal away--

Ryan's leaning against the counter top, scooping out the insides of his yogurt cup with a plastic spoon. Orange creme flavored. So predictable.

He nods a noncommittal greeting. 

As she pulls at the fridge door to expose its cooled goods, he says from beside her, "Five bucks says the only thing you've done today is win a game of Hearts."

There's just a small pause in her general glance over of the condiments and various tupper ware cartons. She sees their bag and deflates. Pizza. It was inevitable.

Ryan's face is next to hers all of a sudden. She's good at rearranging the shock on her face into something more camera friendly, which is why she only quickly glances over at him, but he's not even looking, he's staring into the fridge, all bright-eyed and pale because of the ethereally Kilmore glow. When he sees what she's seeing, he starts to smirk, and his smirk is something Ryan has definitely perfected because of the cameras. He's standing really close, so close she can smell his yogurt, and even if orange creme is really not one of the better flavors Yoplait has to offer, it still smells a heck of a lot better than what she knows is in that bag.

His eyes flick over to hers and he's still got that small, cheeks-sucked-in, I know something you don't know grin--

Pam's got change in her cardigan pocket.

They pull back at the same time. Pam shuts the door with a What now, huh? flare of her eyes and gives in to the beckoning of the vending machines. Ever since Michael had that food one installed it's become a lot less pathetic to stick money into these things. Even if every once in a while she does crave a bag of pretzels or some Starburst from the snack ones.

Ryan's shaking his head but is wisely holding back. A couple quick buttons pressed and, there. A lunch she will actually enjoy.

He sits at the table before she does, and since she was going to sit there anyway, she sits down too. The yogurt, she notices, is mostly gone, just a spoonful at the bottom that he probably won't eat, and he says, "So, how are you going to pay up?"

Sometimes she thinks about how often it's actually not that she sees uniformed people switching out the food in the vending machines. Thankfully, she's able to repress that information in a way that allows her to enjoy the turkey and cheese sandwich most recently purchased. The bread isn't stale and nothing's soggy with mold, so either it's processed in a way that ensures a long shelf life, or inside the vending machine exists magical air. 

Around a mouthful, she says, "Three wins. And it was Spider Solitaire."

He pokes the ground with his shoe, kicking at nothing. "Whatever."

The door opens with a rush of sound. Pam looks up and smiles and expects Jim, but it's Michael.

The thing about Michael is that it's almost guaranteed that he will be followed by a camera crew. The other thing about Michael is that it's almost guaranteed that he will speak as often to the camera as he does to the people who are actually real.

Sure enough, he spins around, bypassing the actual men holding up the documentary equipment (sometimes Pam wonders why they're still hanging around, why she's still signing year-to-year legal waivers, what they're waiting to capture on film that has yet to be captured, and what, exactly, the appeal is in a mid-level paper company with its head barely above the water) and locks eyes with the lens.

He laughs as he says, "Yes! Reunion special! Michael Scott Paper Company. You guys are in for a treat."

Ryan looks over. He seems to roll his eyes without the actual eye roll. Then again, she's learned how to sigh without actually sighing, which is what she does now. When Michael starts to sing the theme song to Cheers, Jim shows up. Thank god. 

Standing there with the door wide open, hand still on the knob, Jim's eyes trace a line from Michael to Pam, all sorts of amusement picked up along the way. She gets the suppressed smile, the one that says We're going to demand an encore of this later, right? For .mp3 purposes, obviously.

Jim lets the door close behind him. "Cheers," he says. "Nice."

Michael seems disappointed to have been cut off mid-way through, but that conflicts with the joy he broadcasts at being complimented.

"Dundies '09. Theme song. What do you think?"

Jim gives it a moment of deep consideration. "Edited lyrics, or?"

Michael scoffs. Eyes the camera. Looks back at Jim. 

Then: "Fo' shizzle my nizzle."

 

06.

Michael calls Pam into his office. It's not until the door is closed behind her that she notices that Ryan is already in there, sitting in one of the chairs across from Michael's desk.

"Sit down," Michael tells her, leaning back in his own chair.

She does, a little awkwardly with the confusion that is doing laps in her head. She looks over at Ryan, but he's staring straight ahead.

"This isn't working for me," Michael starts off with.

Her confusion grows, multiplies, blooms into a confusion tree with confusion fruit. There's a fear there, too. "What isn't working?"

"What's that saying? That thing they say. Keep your friends close and your frenemies closer?"

Absentmindedly, she corrects, "Enemies."

He waves her off. "Ancient terminology. Whatever. My point is, I let those people out there decide my fate. Our fate."

Pam glances vaguely over her shoulder. "What... people?"

"The traitors. All of them. Jim. Dwight. Phyllis. All of them."

Her eyebrows careen towards one another. "I don't..."

With a sigh, he says, "And they say a woman never forgets. Clearly they don't know what they're talking about. Okay. Michael Scott Paper Company. Is that dredging up any memories? Fond ones, maybe?" He rolls back in his chair and starts digging behind his wall cabinet. "Where is that..."

"Michael, what are you--?"

"A-ha!" he shouts, and from out behind the cabinet comes a large posterboard that is recognizable in an instant.

"The 'Memories' poster."

He seems pleased with her observation. "Yes!" Giving it a good shake as if to emphasis the point that its existence makes, he then props it so it's angled against his computer monitor.

Ryan is leaning forward to look at the poster.

Pam bites back a sigh, waiting for the point.

"They say to keep your friends close and your frenemies closer, and that's what I did. When they made me choose who to give the clients to, I chose them. And that... it's probably the single greatest regret of my life. Besides the Powerjet. Believe me, it is not what you think it is. I shouldn't have given your clients to them. I shouldn't. It wasn't fair."

"Michael," Pam starts, but Ryan cuts her off with a, "No, let him finish. He has something to say. I think we should let him say whatever it is he needs to say."

That seems fair, considering currently she's the one who has a more lucrative job title than temp.

"Starting now, I'm giving you your clients back."

That actually sounds... kind of nice, honestly. But beyond the joy, there's a reservation, like she's waiting for the catch. Usually, there's a catch.

"Ryan," Michael says, pointing tented fingers at him, "you're promoted." It's a Donald Trump impression, too. 

"Awesome," Ryan says. Then, "To what?" He looks over at Pam, once, quick, and her heart sinks. There's the catch.

But Michael tells them, "You and Pam, you're my sales team. You're it."

Ryan lets out this weird, low laugh, like he's happy, but confused, and while Pam feels another swell of excitement too (her clients! yes!), she's also thinking about Jim.

"Michael, I don't..." 

It's all she needs to say. That, and let her wrinkled brow spell out her apprehension for her.

He sighs, "Relax, no one is getting fired. Everyone's staying." 

She's not one-hundred percent confident, but she's pretty sure she hears him mutter stupid traitors under his breath.

Audible, he concludes, "We're doing it the Michael Scott way, and if those losers out there have any beef with it, frankly. I don't care. They can suck it."

So Pam gets her clients back, Ryan gets promoted, and everyone else in the office gets pissed. Again.

 

07.

Pam goes downstairs one lunch hour to get her cardigan out of her car, and sees Ryan sitting at the curb, his bagged lunch at his feet. 

"Hey," he says when she walks over. 

She sits down without a word. Breathes out as she does so, like a sigh. At first she pulls her knees up to her chest, but then, squinting because the sun's so bright, she straightens them out in front of her, long and spilling out into the parking lot. Work shoes. Ugh.

"I made a sale today," she fills up the quietness with. "A big one, too. Dwight really freaked out."

He doesn't even look her way, but she can see the corners of his lips twist upwards into a smile. "Congratulations."

She smiles, too, but it fades. 

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to it," she admits. "I have a real, actual career now. Not that 'reception' wasn't a real, actual job," she's quick to backtrack, then thinks: really? How pathetic. She's so used to censoring everything because of the cameras, but none are around. She realizes it's because Jim's upstairs messing around with Dwight, and how about that? That's her boyfriend, ladies and gentleman. 

Ryan turns toward her, his knees angled in a way that has them pressing against hers. And then he looks at her. And there's something about the way he's not breaking eye contact that she feels in every part of her. Confused, at first, she wracks her brain, trying to figure out what she's seeing. And then it hits her, right before he starts to lean in.

She pulls back, protests already spilling out of her mouth by way of his name, but he stops her from going any further with a hand cupping the back of her head. He pulls her back half as far as she'd gone and falls the rest of the way himself. With his fingers tangling in her hair, with her riveted -- shocked -- in place, he kisses her.

It doesn't even last long. It's barely anything. It's over almost as soon as it begins, but when Pam yanks herself backwards with a sound of -- something -- she still feels it. 

She's on her feet, fast, looking anywhere but at Ryan.

"I have a Jim," she blurts, then squeezes her eyes shut. Really? "I have a boyfriend. Jim. You already know that. I don't know why I'm..."

But Ryan's standing up, looking... not smug, but there's a confidence to him. Something about it makes him look really secure, like he's in total control, which makes sense, because nothing about right now makes Pam feel like she has any kind of grip on anything.

He moves in again, and Pam rears back.

"Ryan!" she says, like a burst of noise. Like a shout. Some combo of surprise and -- whatever. Outrage.

Something resembling a smile tugs at his lips, and when he wraps the bottom of her shirt around his fingers, when he uses that leverage to inch her close, when he leans in and stops and waits, staring at her mouth. She kisses him.

 

08.

It starts out like that. Secretive. Just once. Never, ever happening again, and if anyone ever finds out -- seriously, anyone -- souls will be crushed. Namely, Ryan's.

The guilt eats at her. At first. Especially around Jim. Until she thinks, so what? She's young. People make mistakes all the time. They kiss people they shouldn't kiss, and that doesn't mean they're a bad person, and it doesn't mean they don't love the person they cheated on. It just means that... that people screw up all the time. And they're definitely not floozies.

Ryan keeps creeping up in moments she's alone.

She'll ignore him the first few minutes, giving him a pretty solid cold shoulder. And then somehow they're making out. And not just, you know, chaste, friendly pecks that someone from a very far distant might see and think, Oh, look at those two. They must get along great. They must be really good friends. Isn't that sweet? It's so sweet that two people like that can be friends.

No, it's a bunch of stumbling, a lot of stepping on each other's feet because everything's happening so fast, and there's hands up shirts and Ryan's fingers crawling across her back, always skimming the hooks of her bra.

And she'll say, breaking away with a hand on his shoulder to keep them that much space apart, "We have to stop this." She'd probably be more convincing if her hair wasn't falling in tangled curls across her face, or if her gloss wasn't smeared on the collar of his jacket, this shocking blot against the black, but. It's a strong point.

Ryan always smirks. "Right," he'll agree. "We should definitely stop."

This time -- now -- Pam, out of breath and unable to remember why all the secretive kissing is not a good idea, nods. Ryan's gotten really good at knowing what makes Pam make embarrassing noises.

"Jim might find us," he says, just to be a dick. "It's just too bad he's too busy with his boyfriend Dwight to care."

Pam grimaces and laughs at the same time. It's a really horrible thing to do -- to sit here and joke about Jim -- but it's funny, too, and Ryan's right. Jim's up there wrapping Dwight's desk in cellophane, like Dwight's three second reaction is worth it.

Ryan's fingers dig at her waist, and her back hits a tall stack of paper filled boxes. They're fumbling around in a storage closet. Yep. Living the cliche. A mop has already been knocked over, its cloth top spilling out like shoelaces below their feet. 

Pam closes her eyes and thinks about quitting Dunder Mifflin, again, for real this time. No back-ups. She thinks art school and both words, separately and together, make her throat feel closed off. Ryan's breathing really loud, right in her ear. She thinks art school again, feels that same tug at the back of her mouth, like she might be sick. Like she might cry.

Instead, she kisses Ryan, and she likes the sound of that.

 

‘What the hell!” Jim and Dwight are standing by the annex.  
Ryan, like the weasel he is, runs out the door, leaving Pam to fend for herself.  
“I called Michael.. He is on his way.” Dwight looked angry.  
But certainly not as angry as Jim. “This is how you betray my trust, Pam, getting me to accept you hanging around that little douche? Boy, he really was there when you needed him!”  
The door opens. Darryl and Andy are dragging a squirming Ryan into the room. Phylis and Angela come out of the women’s bathroom.   
“Slut,” they begin to chant.  
Suddenly Michael and Todd Packer appear. “Well, you are both fired, but first:~  
Kelly appears with a rubber dildo. She straps it on, as Darryl and Stanley strip Ryan and hold him down. Kelly mounts him, pounding his anus with this huge device. He screams in agony, The men line up to do Pam, Packer is first. As he rams it in, Pam, through her pain, begs Jim for help. But Jim just smiles, and points to his left. Ed Truck is next. Wait. Ed Truck is dead! As he moves nto position, hs head falls off. Pam is is horrified!  
Sdddenly Alex from art school walks in. “You have no art talent,” he smirks. Everyone laughs.   
As the headless Ed Truck mounts her, Angela and Phylis continue to chant “Slut!”  
“Please Jim, I am sorry!Please….”

“Pam?” It’s Jim. “You are having a nightmare. Pam hugs Jim.  
“Jim, you would never desert me, would you?”  
“Of course not.”  
“I dont want to go to AA with Ryan! He,is a creep”  
“Pam, that was a month ago. You already went.”he paused. “And made out with him right?”Pam is scared beyond scared.” Surely you don’t think I would accept your lame excuse about helping him,” Jim stood up. “No, the whole staff helped spying. Some of this a dream, but not all. I mean a headless Ed Truck. Ridiculous.”  
He walked over to the closet. “Only headless guy in this story is….’ he opens the closet.. A body is hanging from the bar, “Ryan!”  
Pam screams, but then she looks more carefully at the hanging body “Thats not real,” she says.  
“Of course not,” Jim smiles.”I am not sick. Although what could make a man sick? I know --a cheating girlfriend!” He laughs.  
He stops laughing. “Good! After how you and Ryan have treated me! How he’s put me down and you’ve laughed! After I supported you going to AA with him!”  
Pam knew that everything Jim said was true.  
“I don’t know what to say.”  
“Ryan does,” Jlm points to the bathroom door. Ryan walks out, followed by several members of the DM staff. He has some papers in his hand.  
“Tell Pam, Ryan.”  
Ryan looks very shook. “I put these on Facebook.” He hands the papers to Pam. She looks at them. They are pencil drawings of Pan and he screwing in various positions. They are graphic, and actually quite good.  
“How many people have seen these?” Jim asks.  
Ryan mumbles. “Thousands. I posted them.”  
“Did we make you do this?” Jim asked.  
“No, did it on my own, just to embarass Pam, while she was with Jim.”  
“You little creep. Pretending to be my friend, making fun of me the whole time.”Pam mumbles“Sound like anyone you know, Pam?” Jim asked. Even Ryan laughed.  
“Ryan, you need to clean out your desk,” remarked Mcheal. I don’t want to see you again.”  
“Ryan ran for the door, knowing this chance might disappear at any moment.He was never seen in Scranton again. If his parents knew, they said nothing.  
Jim turned to Pam and handed her an envelope. It was an accrptance letter from Pratt, along with a cashier check for $10,000.00, I’ve saving this for years.” He turned and walked away.  
This was the crowning moment. This hurt worse than punishment. She realized what the ohers knew. Jim was far too good for her.  
PS- Pam used the money and went to Pratt. She really wasn’t very good, and flunked out, and is presently living her life as a recluse.  
Ryan proved that a leopard never changes it’s spots. He stayed clear of Scranton, but started fooling around with a married woman. The word is Ryan’s remains are very close to Jimmy Hoffa’s!  
Jim’s good sense, charm, and brains served him well. He got into politics, changed his name, and was elected President of The United States. (His new name is Donald Something!)

Auther’s note. I have written some weird stuff, but this takes the cake.

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**Author's Note:**

> Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got til it's gone!


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